


Hit and Run

by dragoninatrenchcoat



Series: Out of the Nick of Time [8]
Category: Forever (TV 2014)
Genre: cw car accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29070657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragoninatrenchcoat/pseuds/dragoninatrenchcoat
Summary: What if Kevin Crachiolla didn’t flinch?In Episode 12, The Wolves of Deep Brooklyn, Henry stared down a speeding vehicle twice in the same episode. This is an examination of the first instance: what would have happened if the driver, Crachiolla, didn’t swerve to avoid crashing into Henry and Jo.Disclaimer: this is not guaranteed to be a reveal. Like all OotNoT stories, I recommend rewatching the correlating episode just before reading the story, but that’s certainly not required.
Relationships: Abe Morgan & Henry Morgan, Jo Martinez & Henry Morgan
Series: Out of the Nick of Time [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880338
Comments: 9
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I normally try to keep these stories more-or-less within the bounds of what would happen in the show, whenever possible (public electrocution being a clear exception), which I only mention because daytime television certainly wouldn't have allowed Mike to swear. But he really wanted to, so I figured, why not? Forever's been cancelled. Do whatever you want, Mike

Jo’s eyes followed the sound of the Aston Martin’s engine, past the suspended auto parts and grease-stained shop workers.

Henry darted from Jo’s side. “He’s getting away!”

He dodged the parts, cars, and workers, and sprinted out into the street, into the path--no, even Henry couldn’t be that stupid--

Jo chased after him. “Henry, stop!”

He did stop. He stood tall and sure, square in the path of the speeding Impala. Facing it down.

_“Henry!”_

The world narrowed down to the calm, fearless expression on Henry’s face as she sprinted toward it. The way he dared Crachiolla to hit the gas; the mad, resolute courage in his eyes.

She pummeled into him, shoved him with her across the alley. She wasn’t fast enough.

It wasn’t the impact with the car that she registered so much as the way the world spun around her, ripping Henry out of her grip. The ground rose up and caught her, hard, spilling her on the asphalt like a ragdoll.

The purr of an Aston Martin engine in the distance.

Her legs flared up in pain.

“Jo!” It was Henry’s voice. She focused on the whirling sky, got her breathing in order. There were other shouts from farther away, inside the garage. “Jo!”

She turned her head and looked at him. Laying on the ground, not far from her.

Was that all her blood, or his?

“Stay there,” he called out to her, reaching toward her. It looked like he had difficulty moving. There was blood dripping down his face. Other than the aching pain in her legs, there was an all-over disorientation, a fog... a concussion? She hoped not.

The car had hit her legs; the rest of her had hit the ground. Maybe a concussion. The glass-crunch noise she remembered hearing... that had been Henry, twisted to hit first. A cushion between her and the vehicle.

Damn it.

She saw him turn over, get his hands under him. Pull himself closer, pain clear on his face.

The blood was his. Probably some of it was hers, but his pant leg was dark with blood, his foot twisted the wrong way; Jo couldn’t see his other leg from her angle, but he wasn’t attempting to put weight on either one of them, and the trail he left behind was substantial, soaked through to the asphalt like a brush dragged across canvas. He crawled, painstaking, hand-over-hand.

“Henry.” She reached out toward him; he wasn’t supposed to move, not if he was injured. She wasn’t sure that her intention got across.

He bore what must have been agony through little more than a tense jaw and a determined expression, and when he reached her, he looked her over with a laser focus. The drip of blood down the side of his face was dark red, too dark for a superficial wound. 

Jo said, “Henry, you’re hurt.”

“Seems I got the worst of it,” he agreed, panting. A wave of relief cut through his focus, and he actually smiled. “Good. You’ll be fine, Jo.”

He glanced up to the bystanders that she couldn’t see, tongue between his teeth, his eyes flicking between trains of thought. Making some kind of a decision.

Then he looked back down at her, and failed at keeping the strain from his expression. The pain of keeping himself even partly upright.

“They’ve called the paramedics,” he panted. “You’re going to be fine. I’ll see you at the hospital, alright? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“What do you mean, you’ll be there as soon as you-? Henry-”

He leveraged himself up onto his knees. Agony danced in his eyes, but his gaze was locked somewhere else, and with an ill-suppressed moan he forced himself up onto his feet and left.

Jo tried to track him as long as she could. He ran--hobbling, leaning heavily on the wall, limping, grunting, leaving a steady trail of blood behind--and disappeared into an alley.

Henry left her behind. He actually left her. She was wounded, but he was gravely injured, and he _ran away_.

When the paramedics arrived, Jo and one of the bystanders insisted that Henry be chased and found. One of the paramedics disappeared into the alley they indicated, but he came back empty-handed and said he found no sign that there was anyone else nearby. 

“What do you mean?” Jo asked as they loaded her into a stretcher. She pointed to the crash site. “All the blood...”

“That’s your blood, ma’am.”

She stared. The asphalt was perfectly clean, except for the scuffed pool she’d left behind. That dark, wide stain by his legs, the thick bloody smear he’d made as he’d crawled over to her, the blotchy trail leading into the alley--all of it was gone. Like it had never been there to begin with.

The ambulance doors closed, and a familiar siren cleared the way to the hospital.

#

“Please,” Henry begged a young couple. The man with the ponytail had his arm braced protectively around the man in the denim jacket, both of them regarding Henry the way a dog regarded a viper.

“Please,” he repeated. “I need to use your phone, if only for a moment. My partner’s in hospital, and I swore to her I’d be there.”

They exchanged a look, one of those long, knowing ones that only lifelong couples could share, then back at him.

Henry glanced down at the newspaper that was his only article of clothing. “It’s a long story, I’m afraid, and I don’t have very much time.”

The man with the short hair gave a shrug, and with a roll of the eyes, the one with the ponytail offered his phone.

Henry adjusted his grip on the newspaper in order to accept the phone with the most grateful smile he could manage. A pity that his hand was still damp from riverwater.

“Thank you so much,” he said.

The one with the ponytail raised an eyebrow and nodded. “No problem,” he said warily. “Just make it quick.”

#

“Did she see you die?” Abe asked nervously as Henry finished buttoning up his shirt. The helpful couple watched from the other side of the park, and he waved at them through the windshield before they turned the corner, out of sight.

“No,” Henry answered. “But she saw me gravely injured. She didn’t see me die, exactly, but she saw me _almost_ die and then run away.”

“What were you doing anyway, standing in the middle of the street? Even you’re not usually that reckless.”

Henry pressed his lips together, focused for a moment on pulling his vest on in the cramped passenger seat. Abe had brought him a full suit, rather than sweats.

Clark Walker, bleeding out on the basement floor. Adam’s smug voice, quiet through the telephone speaker.

He said, “I was trying to prevent our suspect from getting away, that’s all. Crachiolla may or may not be a murderer, but I expected him at the very least to have a modicum of decency and choose not to run down an unarmed man in broad daylight. It seems I expected too much.”

“I told you we should’ve gone after him on our own.”

Henry rolled his eyes, buttoning up his vest.

Abe raised his eyebrows, turning toward him. “You really promised her you’d come back?”

Henry let out a sigh and slumped back in his seat. “It was...” He shook his head. “A moment of stress. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“I think you did know what you were saying.” Abe paused. “You should tell her.”

The very idea of telling someone--it brought to mind Nora’s resigned sorrow, the way she’d looked _through_ him as though attempting to find him hidden somewhere inside himself. And then, years later, the furious hope that’d filled her eyes as she threatened him at gunpoint.

“It’s not that simple, Abe,” he said quietly.

“I think it can be that simple, you just don’t want it to be.” Abe shrugged and started the car, pulled out into the street. “Either way, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Henry stiffened. “What? No, Abe! If I show up now, like this, after what Jo just saw-”

“I’m taking you there because you’re worried sick about her, and if you don’t check up on her you’re just going to keep being worried sick. Talk to her, don’t talk to her, at least you can ask the nurses how she’s doing. I won’t have you up all night bugging me about it.”

He studied Abe’s face, his carefully neutral expression as he navigated traffic. Abe only ever appeared _that_ neutral on a topic if he knew for a fact that he was right.

He _was_ right, about this at least. Henry needed to know how Jo was doing. He wanted to take care of her himself, but long gone were the days when anyone with medical experience could show up at a hospital and volunteer from nowhere. He should just poke his head in and get an idea of her status before leaving.

No- no, there was a glaring flaw with this idea. Henry shook his head.

“No, Abe. I can’t. Detective Hanson will be there, at the very least. If Jo has already told him what she’s seen, and then he sees me like this, tonight? I can’t run that risk.”

Abe let out a breath. “Alright, you got me there. Promise me you’ll call in and ask when we get home.”

“Believe me, I will.”

Did this mean Henry might have to leave New York entirely? Run away, start over, like he’s done so many times?

No, it wouldn’t come to that. If he avoided Jo for a few days, he could show up later on and pretend that he’d gotten better over time. That his injuries hadn’t been as bad as she’d thought. The longer he waited, the less she’d be able to trust her own memories.

A plan. Yes. Good. It was always better to have some semblance of a plan.

#

Abe crossed his arms, watching his father from the doorway.

“I’d like to check on a patient,” Henry said into the telephone. “Josephine Martinez. She was admitted today, perhaps an hour ago, maybe less.”

A pregnant pause. Abe knew Henry didn’t like to show worry, but he fiddled with the phone cord nonetheless.

It should have been weird, his father being into a girl very nearly half Abe’s age. But age was something different when it came to Henry Morgan. He’d already been a hundred years old or so when he’d met Abigail, after all; if he limited his loved ones to people his own age, he’d long have become a hermit.

Well, more than he already was.

“Yes,” said Henry, perking up. “Yes, that’s her. How is she?”

It made sense, logically. Maybe his brain had sort of frozen at 35; at least, as he’d grown older, Abe had found himself more often than not taking care of Henry rather than the other way around. Or maybe that was a normal part of growing up. Or maybe everyone’s brain froze at 35, and no one ever had cause to notice.

“No, no. There’s no need to bother her. I only want to know if she’s alright.”

The weird thing was that it made sense emotionally, too. Jo Martinez was younger than Abe, and his father was--although the man himself wasn’t aware of it--pining after her; but somehow, that didn’t _feel_ weird.

Maybe it was all just because Henry looked like he was 35. Maybe that’s all it took to fool the brain into thinking that’s how old he really was, even if you’d spent your entire life alongside him. Even if you simultaneously considered him to be your pops.

Relief washed a few false years from Henry’s face, and he smiled. “Good. Good. Thank you. May I have your name?”

Abe felt his own shoulders relax. He didn’t know exactly what’d happened to Jo in the collision, but it sounded like she was alright at least.

Henry nodded. “Thank you, Nurse Hawkins. You have a nice night.”

Abe stood up from the doorway as Henry hung up the phone. “Good news?”

Henry whirled around, hand on his heart. “Abe! I thought you’d gone upstairs.”

“I had,” he shrugged. “Good news?”

“Yes. Jo is fine, all things considered. No concussion. A clean break in one leg and a fracture in the other. She will be using a wheelchair for a little while, then move on to crutches, and eventually she’ll have full mobility again.”

It was good news, but Henry grimaced through it, as though feeling the injuries himself. Then Abe remembered.

Jo wouldn’t have gotten injured at all if Henry hadn’t run out to the middle of the street.

Abe strode forward and rested one hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Come on. I made dinner. Don’t let all that hard work I went through go to waste.”

Henry smiled, and let out a long breath.

#

Abe’s cooking always brought Henry back to their life with Abigail. She was the one who’d taught little Abe the art, and something of her always came out in the flavor.

It was exactly why Henry had spent several years avoiding both Abe and his cooking, but those were dark days he wouldn’t rather dwell upon.

This meal, however, was interrupted by a knock at the door.

The shop was closed, which made it highly likely that it was someone who knew them personally; as much as Henry hoped it was one of Abe’s friends, he wasn’t aware of anyone who would bother Abe without warning.

It had to be someone from the precinct. Someone who knew Henry had been with Jo. Likely, someone who’d spoken to her personally, and wanted to find him.

He’d been mulling over his options since shooting down Abe’s suggestion to go straight to the hospital. He needed to lie low and pretend his injuries hadn’t been so severe, which meant he needed an injury if he were to face anyone who’d spoken with Jo. One that could possibly line up roughly with what Jo might have described, but didn’t need a hospital stay. And most importantly, a reason to have fled the scene.

He’d meant to prepare all this immediately upon his return, but he’d been too preoccupied with checking on Jo.

No time like the present.

They knocked again.

Abe gestured, setting his fork down. “What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. I’ll answer it.”

“Are you sure? You know it’s probably someone from the station-”

“I know, Abe.” He paused in thought, biting his tongue. Nodded. “I just need to grab something from my closet.”

#

Mike shifted from foot to foot. Nervous, and annoyed that he was nervous. On one hand, he trusted Dr. Morgan with his life--he wouldn’t admit to it if anyone asked, but he did. On the other, though, this whole thing smelled fishy. Jo had said Henry had run off after the both of them had been struck by a car. Why? Where’d he gone, and why hadn’t he come to check on Jo yet?

Henry running off without warning wasn’t exactly news, but in this situation... it just put Mike on edge. There was _something_ to it. Something bad.

When the lights came on in the antique shop’s front room, and Mike saw Henry limping toward the door, leaning heavily on a polished redwood cane with every other step, it should have made him feel better. But the very sight of him put a knot in Mike’s stomach.

Henry opened the door with a tight smile. “Detective Hanson.”

“Henry, what the hell are you doing here?”

Henry paused. “If you didn’t think I’d be here, why did you come?”

Cagey. It didn’t exactly put Mike to ease. “I’ll be honest, Doc, part of me was hoping I wouldn’t find you at all. Part of me was hoping you’d been tracked down and kidnapped by that Crachiolla guy you were hunting down. Because, as far as I can see it, being tied up in the trunk of a car is just about the only excuse you could possibly have for leaving Jo high and dry at the hospital.”

Whatever Henry had meant to say caught in his throat at the end of that sentence. Mike stepped forward as though to have a quieter conversation, but primarily just as an excuse to put his foot in the way of the door.

“What the hell happened?” Mike asked. “Why’d you leave her there? Partners don’t do shit like that. I know you know that.”

Henry nodded, looking chagrined. “Yes, I realize how this looks.”

“I don’t think you do, pal.”

“I thought I knew where Crachiolla was going. I thought I’d be able to cut him off. I only intended to cross through to the other side of the alley, but... I’m afraid the chase got the better of me. I borrowed a bike, and I kept on his tail for the better part of ten blocks. By the time I was forced to admit I’d lost him, I was closer to home than I was to either the crash site or the hospital, so I tended to my injury here.”

Mike felt heat creep up his neck, the familiar churn of anger in his chest. “You left Jo bleeding out on the pavement.”

“The paramedics had been called, and I had paused long enough to look over her myself. She was far from critical condition; I knew she’d be well taken care-”

_“You left your partner bleeding out on the pavement.”_ Slowly, emphasizing every word.

Henry paused again. The clear guilt in his eyes only angered Mike more.

“You ain’t a cop, Dr. Morgan, but that doesn’t let you off the hook for this one. You’re a smart guy. Hell, you’re the smartest guy I’ve ever met. There’s no world in which you can convince me that you honestly thought you could catch a speeding car on a bike with an injured leg--thought it hard enough that you’d leave Jo on her own, bleeding out in the middle of the road. You’re a doctor. Why the hell didn’t you stay with her?”

Looking pained, he said carefully, “I looked over her myself. I knew her to be safe-”

“You knew her to be-? No, I know what you did, Doc. You wanted to be a hero. You wanted to be a cop. You’re not. You’ve got no training, no weapon, no authority. You’re a medical examiner. You’re a fucking doctor, and you failed Jo when you pretended not to be one.”

Henry stood still, stiff, like he hadn’t expected to be called out like this. Why the hell hadn’t he? Had he really thought he’d get away with it?

Mike leaned in and spoke quietly; it was the only way he could be sure to keep his rage in check. “If it were up to me, you’d be pulled off field work. You’re not ready to come back. You’ve saved Jo’s life plenty of times, but today, you could have killed her. I won’t forgive you for that.”

Still nothing. Henry stood there, staring, mouth partway open. He seemed to forget his own injury; he held the cane at his side like it was some piece of junk he’d collected from the floor.

Mike shook his head. He’d gotten what he came for. He’d found Henry, estimated that he was fine, not in any immediate danger. Not from Crachiolla, anyway.

He turned away, paused to glance back. “If you don’t get to the hospital soon, I’ll put you there myself.”

Henry nodded.

Simmering, Mike stalked toward his car.


	2. Chapter 2

Henry caught his breath, staring after Mike.

He was right, of course. More right than he thought. It was because of this exact situation that Henry  _ wasn’t _ a doctor.

But he couldn’t go to the hospital right away, not unless Jo was asleep. If he waited long enough, he could...

He could what? Gaslight her, like he had on their very first case? Like he had to countless other people over the years? Lies upon lies upon lies, convincing people that their very memories were mistaken. He’d become so good at it.

At manipulating people.

“Henry?” Abe called from the back. Henry swallowed, realized he was staring out the open door. He closed it with cold-numbed fingers.

“I’m fine, Abe,” he called back, crossing to the basement. “I’m afraid I... I need a moment.”

“What happened?”

His excuse--his lie--hadn’t been good enough.

He pulled the hatch open. “Nothing, Abe. It was Detective Hanson. He doesn’t suspect anything. I’ll just be a moment.”

He shut the door behind him.

#

_ “Found him,” _ said Mike’s voice through the phone.  _ “He’s fine.” _

Jo let out a relieved breath. “Good. How is he? Where is he?”

_ “He’s fine, Jo. He’s literally fine. A tiny limp, no blood. He’s at home.” _

A tiny limp, no blood. Jo frowned, thinking of the sweat on his face, the flicker of panic in his eyes as he’d leaned over her. The red river he’d left behind. She thumbed the hem of her hospital blanket.

“That can’t be right. You’re sure-”

_ “I’m sure, Jo. He was smiling, going on. He said he’d tried to chase Crachiolla by bike.” _

“No, that... he was in no state to...” Her confused brain latched onto his tone. “Wait, Mike, are you mad at him?”

_ “Mad? No, I’m not mad, Jo. I’m pissed off.” _

She shook her head. “This is Henry. You know him, he wouldn’t...” she didn’t have an end to that sentence. Wouldn’t what? Run off alone? Dodge a question?

_ “He left you to go off and do his own heroics.” _

“No. No, Mike, there was no way. He could barely stand. He had to crawl over to me; there’s no way he could have operated a bike.”

_ “Really, Jo, he looked fine to me. His story checks out, though I wish it didn’t.” _

She furrowed her brows. It was hard to focus through the morphine. “I need to talk to him myself. Is he with you?”

_ “No. He’ll be there soon if he knows what’s good for him, but I had to take off. The nerve of him, Jo. He smiled right at my face, tried to laugh it off.” _

“Mike, it’s fine-”

_ “It is not fine.” _

A sharp silence. Was Mike right?  _ Why _ had Henry run off? He’d seemed so... desperate, so determined. No, it hadn’t been about chasing Crachiolla. Jo knew that. It’d been about something else.

“Thanks. Thank you for telling me.”

_ “No problem. Don’t worry, we’ll get Crachiolla.” _

She chuckled. “Don’t be so sure of that. His car has an Aston-Martin engine.”

_ “And we’ve got roadblocks. Rest up, Jo. We need you here.” _

“I will. Bye, Mike.”

_ “See you.” _

Jo reached over and placed the phone back on its receiver; her cell was in her purse, off in an unreachable chair. 

She went over the events of the crash as best she could. She’d grabbed Henry to shove him out of the way; her momentum had twisted them so that Henry hit the car harder than she did. They’d tumbled to the ground and the car had sped off.

Henry had been bleeding heavily from his head and legs. He’d clearly been in a lot of pain. Then he’d... run away.

Then all the blood had disappeared. Dried up, or cleaned up, but one was nonsense and the other couldn’t have happened. The EMT hadn’t been able to find him.

According to Mike, he was just... home. He’d gone home. Had he limped there himself, to take care of his own wounds? She couldn’t... no, she  _ could _ picture him doing that. _ “Oh, my injuries were not so severe, Jo. I had all the necessary supplies at home already; I didn’t see the point in wasting taxpayers’ money on something I could very well handle myself.” _

But his injuries had definitely been severe. He’d been run over by a speeding Aston-Martin-Impala. There’s no way he could have... but Mike had said he wasn’t bad off at all. ‘A tiny limp, no blood’.

It wasn’t possible.

She needed to talk to him herself.

She grabbed the phone again and dialed Abe’s Antiques.

#

Henry stared at nothing. At his desk; at the place where, mere hours ago, he’d simply been autopsying a rat.

He could imagine the life. Scurrying along corners, sniffing the air, the simplicity of scavenging for food. He could imagine the death, too; starving, little paws grasping for purchase on the soot-stained stone, a single misstep, and the weightlessness of the fall, like a suspended moment in time.

Now he was daydreaming about being a rat. He leaned forward, ran his hands over his face, trying to gather himself together. This was simple. It was the kind of thing he did all the time. Why had he let Mike get to him? All he needed to do was brush off the impact of the crash, and everything could go back to normal.

Normal. The same old delicate balance of lies.

A knock on the trapdoor, then Abe descended, ducking his head to find Henry.

“Yes?” Henry asked.

“Uh, Jo’s on the phone.”

Of course she was. Mike had told her where to find him. Henry nodded.

“You going to come get it?”

He nodded again. “Yes. Yes, just give me a moment. I’ll be right up.”

Abe hesitated. “Henry, I don’t know what Detective Hanson said, but-”

“I am not going to tell Jo. That is far from a solution.”

“I really think she would understand.”

“She wouldn’t, Abe. In the entirety of my two centuries on this earth, only one person has understood. One person who didn’t grow up with it, anyway,” he added, gesturing to Abe.

“Out of how many?”

Henry paused, lifted his head. “I’m sorry?”

“How many have you told?” Abe watched him for a moment, then shook his head. “Jo’s on the phone in the shop,” he said, then left.

Henry closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and left to answer the phone.

#

_ “Jo. How are you feeling?” _

Was she reading into it, or was he being defensive right out of the gate?

“Fine, Henry. I mean, as fine as I can. Hey, are you alright?”

_ “Yes.” _ A hesitant sound, like he wasn’t sure what exactly to say.  _ “I presume Detective Hanson has told you about my failed escapade?” _

Jo frowned. “Yeah, he did. Henry, did you... did you really try to go after Crachiolla on a bike?”

_ “Not one of my most brilliant ideas, I admit.” _

She could remember him, clear as day, the painstaking way he’d dragged himself hand-over-hand to her side. She found herself shaking her head. “No, that’s impossible.”

_ “An Aston-Martin versus a bicycle? I wouldn’t venture to say it’s outright impossible-” _

“No, Henry, I mean there’s no way you could have operated a bike. I... I’m not even sure your legs...”

_ “My legs are fine, Jo.” _

“Fine.” The agony in his eyes as he’d forced himself upright. There was something he’d needed in the alley--or at least, away from her. Something more important than Crachiolla.

He was lying to her.

_ “Yes, right as rain. Well, not quite. I will be using a cane for a little while, but certainly it was nothing that necessitated a hospital visit.” _

“Henry,” said Jo, as she adjusted her seat in the hospital bed. “I need you to be honest with me.”

A pause.  _ “What? I am, Jo.” _

“I saw you. You’re not going to convince me I didn’t see how injured you were. I don’t know why you’re lying to me, but I’m willing to bet it’s important, because... I know I don’t know everything about you, Henry, but I know what sort of person you are. If you’re lying--if you’re lying to me--it’s because you have a good reason. You’re trying to protect someone. But why is  _ this _ something you have to lie about? What happened in that alley?”

_ “I- Jo, I promise you, I’m fine. I stumbled a little on my way into the alley, but by the time I found a bike, I was fine.” _

“I saw the blood.” The blood that had vanished moments later. Had she imagined it?

She shut her eyes. No. No, it was too real: the sharp smell of iron, the dark red lines down the side of Henry’s face.

The blood had been real, and it had not been there moments later. Both of those things were true. They had to be. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? Did that mean that Henry was trying to cover up something impossible? How, and why?

_ “The only blood on the floor was your own,” _ said Henry, echoing the EMT’s words.

Jo pressed her lips together. “Henry, you can trust me.”

_ “I do trust you, Jo.” _

She closed her eyes. She needed something now; she needed an in. An olive branch. Anything. If she hung up now, if she let him think he’d gotten away with his lie, he’d sweep it under the rug as quickly and easily as all of his other secrets.

She didn’t begrudge secrets on their own merit. Henry was a private person, and that was fine with her. But she knew, in her gut, that he hadn’t just left her alone on the asphalt. He’d had a reason to leave her behind, something important. She’d seen that clearly enough in his eyes.

“They’re going to release me in the morning,” she told him. “I know you don’t drive, but I’d like you to come pick me up. Take me somewhere private, somewhere you feel comfortable, and tell me as much as you can. I trust you, Henry. I know you didn’t do what Mike said you did.” She paused. “You can  _ trust _ me.”

He didn’t speak for a long moment.

Then he said,  _ “I’ll be there tomorrow. You have my word.” _

Jo’s shoulders relaxed. She really hadn’t been sure what he would say. “Thank you, Henry. I’ll see you then.”

#

Henry took a cab to the hospital—making certain to glance in at the driver first—and hesitated at the automatic doors. Could this really be the right answer? Could it be the solution?

He thought of the torture, the long hungry nights in the mental asylum, but ultimately he thought of the unforgettable way his heart had dropped out from his chest when Nora had pulled herself out of his grasp. When she’d turned away and left him there. 

Could it happen again? He didn’t want to see that same expression on Jo’s face.

Abe was adamant that this was the answer. But he was only a child; he had never known Henry without a confidant, had only seen him in love with Abigail. Abe’s view of the world was innocent, he was...

He was smarter than Henry, most days. And he’d been through too much himself to still be considered a child. 

Oh, where had all those days gone?

Henry had made Jo a promise last night. He’d broken the last one. He intended to keep this one.

He stood before the doors, cane held tight as a lifeline, though he didn’t lean against it as he strolled determinedly into the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Apologies for the short chapter! As recompense, allow me to gift you this: Kythe42 has made a Forever Discord fan server. We're not putting out public links at the moment (until we figure out how best to repel trolls and the like), but if you want to join, you can message me on Tumblr (dragoninatrenchcoat) or Discord (dragoninatrenchcoat#9351) and I'll get you a temporary link.
> 
> I'll see you next week! ;)


	3. Chapter 3

A nurse had helped Jo figure out how to change back into her clothes while both of her legs burned with dulled pain. She’d signed the release paperwork, located her insurance information, and was now being wheeled to the reception area—where she saw Henry speaking with one of the nurses at the desk. 

The very sight of him sent a wave of relief through Jo. Henry didn’t exactly make it a habit to keep his promises, and something about this situation put Jo a bit on edge. Part of her had expected him to avoid her altogether, despite what he’d said. 

After that reaction faded, though, she still found herself staring instead of calling out to draw his attention.

Henry was fine. 

Somehow she’d come to expect it; Henry had sounded so blasé over the phone, insisting that he hadn’t been very injured. Mike had described only a ‘tiny limp’. Henry did, in fact, have a cane with him. She wondered blithely how he expected to use it while pushing her chair. 

He’d had to crawl toward her, dragging half his body behind him. The pain in his expression, the red lines on his face. Like a dream. She almost wished it  _ had _ been a dream.

He glanced around in his conversation and his eyes landed on her. She saw the stutter in his speech, the surprise that she’d snuck up on him, and he said a flustery goodbye-and-thank-you before approaching with a nervous smile.

“Jo,” he said, like the release of a held breath. It was incredible how many contradictory emotions could be packed into one small syllable.

Jo turned to the nurse who still stood behind her. “This is Henry. Thank you so much for your help.”

“Of course. You feel better, okay?”

“I will,” said Jo, and the nurse left, retreating to her other charges. 

It was just the two of them.

Jo opened her mouth—to say what, she had no idea—but Henry said, “Detective Martinez, would you care to join me for a walk?”

His words were fast and brushed up against one another. Nervous. 

Jo smiled. “If you don’t mind doing my walking for me.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he said with a partial bow, and wheeled her outside, onto the sidewalk, and down along the street.

Had he leaned on his cane at all?

They walked in silence for a short while, Henry pushing her wheelchair generally toward the east, through the New York pedestrian traffic. Jo knew she had to be the one to start talking; whatever Henry’s lie was, it was bigger than anything he’d ever lied to her about before. She could feel that in his anxious silence, if she hadn’t already known it in her gut. 

She said, “I’m glad you came.”

“I did make a promise.”

She didn’t turn to look, but she could still hear the wince in his voice. 

“I would like to apologize, Jo. I had promised you that I would meet you in the hospital as soon as I was able, and yet I dithered.”

She’d almost forgotten about that promise, muttered desperately through his own pain, a calculating look in his eyes.

“Henry,” she said, “I-“

“Have you been to the East River park yourself? It is an interesting place. It is frequented enough by the populace to offer some measure of anonymity, but not so often that privacy is out of the question, if you find the right spot. There are some small corners that offer little more than a patch of grass, but still boast a remarkable view at the right times of day.”

“Is that why it’s favored by skinny dippers?” Jo asked to lighten the mood, but when she glanced back she saw a pensive smile on his face.

“Perhaps,” he answered. He seemed like he wanted to add more, but instead he fell into silence.

He clearly didn’t want to say anything important until they’d reached their destination, so in the meantime, Jo pored over her questions.

She was confident that Henry had lied to Mike, but how did that relate to the blood disappearing from the ground? She knew--forced herself to keep in mind--that he’d suffered worse than her in the accident. She clearly remembered the way he’d struggled to his feet and staggered away, gritting his teeth. Yet she was in a wheelchair, and Henry wasn’t.

That was it, wasn’t it? She felt she’d landed on the thought already, but had forcibly turned herself away from it. Nothing could be  _ impossible _ \--or rather, the truly impossible never happened. But if the blood hadn’t disappeared from the asphalt, because that was impossible, then Jo had hallucinated. Which, technically, was possible. If this had happened to anyone else, she would have insisted that it was the only solution.

But because it was her, because of her sheer confidence and her years of honed instinct, both options seemed equally impossible. What she wanted above all was for Henry to furnish some third option from the ether, which he’d always been so good at. She knew, though--had known since last night, although she’d refused to think about it--that there was no third option.

Either Jo couldn’t trust her own senses, her own memories, or Henry had done something impossible. And the truly bizarre thing about all this was that her own instincts were leaning her toward the second option.

The East River Park was a long stretch of grass dotted with trees and interrupted here-and-there by concrete paths. It was as busy as anywhere else in New York, with a path along the river that played host to joggers and cyclists going either direction. Henry managed to find one of the corners he’d mentioned: a spare piece of grass with one lone bench, shaded by the trees. It was a small enough area that no one had come to play or lounge in the grass beside them, and the only people who passed by were those taking the long path around the park, most of them wearing earbuds or headphones.

He wheeled her next to the bench and took a seat beside her, laying his cane across his lap. Jo took the opportunity to study his head for any hidden wounds.

She found nothing: only his soft, brown hair, unmarred by blood or scar tissue.

Jo said, straightforward, “You were badly injured. You were worse than I was. Weren’t you?”

He stared at the river for a long moment, looking troubled.

“You can trust me, Henry.”

He looked at her then, with his fading smile. “Can I?” he asked, as though privy to some secret. Before she could respond, he continued with all seriousness, “Can I trust you with this, Jo? No matter how you feel about it, can I trust you to hold whatever I tell you in complete secrecy?”

“Of course.”

“Complete secrecy. Not one person, no matter what.”

She hesitated. She needed to be completely honest. If she said yes, and he confessed to something illegal, she would need to let it go. Could she do that? For Henry?

She trusted him. She trusted him more than she’d thought possible. Whatever his secret was, it  _ wasn’t _ illegal; or, if it was, she’d understand enough to want to keep it to herself. She had to have faith in that.

Jo nodded. “Not one person, Henry. I promise.”

As he glanced between her eyes, though, he looked doubtful. Did he not trust her?

He sighed and leaned back again.

She kept her eyes on his face. “I saw the blood. Too much blood. You needed emergency medical attention, but instead of waiting with me for the ambulance, you ran away. By the time the EMTs arrived, the blood had disappeared.”

His hands tightened on the cane. “What’s your conclusion, then, Jo? I assume this is a problem that you’ve been mulling over.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, which surprised him into meeting her eyes again. “Of course it is, Henry. Of  _ course _ it is. What happened was impossible.”

“What happened, then?”

Jo shook her head, paused a moment. “What I know happened is that you lied to Mike. Your limp is made-up, and so is that story about you chasing Crachiolla on a stolen bike.”

Henry swallowed. “Do you know what Mike said to me last night?”

“No, but I know how close he was to decking you in the face.”

“He accused me of undue heroics--which, I admit, is generally warranted. I know it’s a flaw of mine. But if he understood why...” He adjusted his seat and cleared his throat. “The crux of Mike’s argument was that, as a doctor, I should have remained by your side. I couldn’t have known for a fact that you were safe, and should not have run away. About that, he was completely accurate. Which, Jo, is why I am a medical examiner, and no longer a practicing doctor.”

Jo frowned. “What, so that you won’t feel responsible-”

“Because when I am gravely wounded, I am utterly bound by my own circumstances to run away. It has happened before and it will again. You remarked upon an impossibility, and I’m afraid it is that exact impossibility which prevents me from keeping the hippocratic oath. Ethically, I cannot be a doctor.”

She leaned toward him, heavy on the arm of her chair. “Why did you have to run away?”

He ran one hand over his mouth, and answered a different question instead. “My instinct was to lie to you today. Had things gone differently, I know I would have lied to you, like I have so many times in the past. Even now, I feel I ought to lie to you. I am making a mistake, Jo, one that cannot be undone. I could lose everything. I know that because I have lost everything before. But is that a reason to go on manipulating you? Gaslighting you? How is that a fair trade? How can I expect you to trust me, when the first thing I ever did was lie to you?”

Jo balked. “The first thing you ever did?”

“When we first met, there had been a terrible subway crash. You found my pocket watch at the scene, and interrogated me as to my whereabouts at the time. I told you that I had dropped the watch in the subway, escaping death by mere minutes. I lied.”

Jo turned her wheelchair to face him, and leaned forward on the arm of his bench. A better angle to meet his gaze directly. “Why did you have to run away, Henry?”

He took a long breath, let it out. “I had suffered much worse injury than you. I needed to run because I was dying.”

“The impossible thing. The reason your blood disappeared from the ground. You...” She wanted to say something ridiculous, but despite the conversation she just couldn’t make herself do it. She couldn’t guess, in good conscience, that something  _ supernatural _ had happened.

But that was the only option, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that why they were out here alone?

Henry looked at her, into her eyes. “I what, Jo?”

He wanted her to say it, to save him the need. What if he was just leading her on, trying to pull some kind of elaborate prank?

He wasn’t. Jo knew what she had seen, and Henry wouldn’t pull a stunt like that. She forced herself to say it out loud.

“You healed. Impossibly fast.”

“Like one of Lucas’s comic book heroes? No, although that would be a far simpler condition than mine. In fact, what I did in that alley was the exact opposite. I died,” he said, a too-fast addition, like ripping off a band-aid.

Jo raised an eyebrow, but his expression was too somber for her to laugh. “All evidence to the contrary.”

He set his jaw, staring at the water. “I died, and I came back. Just there.” He pointed east to the water, just a little south of where they sat. “Naked, as always. I begged the use of a cell phone off of a friendly couple, in order to call Abe to pick me up. No matter your stature, I find that covering yourself with naught but an old newspaper can induce pity from the widest range of souls.”

She blinked, trying to process what he said, but he kept on talking.

“Abe has been insisting that I tell you. But he’s too young to understand. There are risks in telling; risks to me, yes, but to him as well. He only thinks that it would benefit me if you knew. Psychologically, I suppose. And perhaps he’s right. But you are smart, logical, and curious. The three combined spell disaster for what I am.”

She cut him off with a raised hand. “Wait, wait. Slow down, Henry. What do you mean, ‘what you are’?”

He sat up straight, glanced around for eavesdroppers, and forced himself to meet her eye again. “Detective Martinez, I am immortal.”

Immortal. It was a ridiculous word. Impossible.

“I’m telling you, because... because what I did yesterday was wrong. There is no way to apologise for it. You could have died, Jo. I stood before the car in part because I knew it wouldn’t kill me--not permanently, at least--but in doing so I’d stupidly placed you in danger. The entire situation could have been avoided but for my own bullheaded...” he gritted his teeth. “I wanted to force Crachiolla to face me. He’d been manipulating me. I needed to do something drastic, something he wouldn’t expect. I needed to stop him getting away at any cost. That’s all that was in my mind at the time.”

“Manipulating you? Henry, he was lying. It’s what guilty people tend to do.”

He rubbed his eyes. “I wasn’t exactly in my right mind. And even if he had been manipulating me, that doesn’t excuse the danger I put you in, the danger I put Abe in by risking my secret so blatantly. If Crachiolla had run me over, if he’d killed me right there--if you hadn’t tackled me, changing the angle of collision--I would have died in front of all those people. They would have seen my body disappear. I may have died, Jo, but you saved my life. For that I may never be able to adequately thank you.”

He was so sincere. This impossibility, this immortality, was the secret that had danced in his eyes as he’d leaned over her. This was the reason he’d lied to Mike. But it was ridiculous.

Jo said, “Let me get this straight. You died yesterday. You actually died.”

He nodded. That lined up with what she remembered: the severity of his injuries, the darkness of the blood on his face, the river on the asphalt. That made an eerie sense.

“Your body disappeared.”

He nodded again. That was nonsense; but the EMTs hadn’t been able to find him, and the blood had all vanished. Not cleaned up, but  _ gone _ , no trace of a stain.

“You came back...” Her eyebrows went up as she registered what he’d said. “Naked, in the East River.”

He nodded with an embarrassed smile. Was he saying that this was what had happened each time he’d gone ‘skinny dipping’?

“And now you’re completely healthy.”

“Yes. Precisely the same condition as when I’d died the first time.”

“The first time?”

He gestured to himself. “Gunshot wound to the chest.”

Jo remembered that twisted scar, when they’d rescued him from being kidnapped and electrocuted. He’d promised her an answer but had never actually given it.

“This is impossible,” she heard herself say. “What you’re saying is impossible.”

His expression tightened, a veiled grimace. “Perhaps, Jo, but it is the truth. And it is, absolutely, first and foremost, a secret.”

“I shouldn’t believe you, but I know what I saw. I know that what I saw was impossible, but there’s no way I could have invented it, or hallucinated it. And it all matches up with what you claim.”

She fell silent, and so did he, like he were holding his breath. Watching her.

It sort of clicked. The way he always threw himself into harm’s way. The cavalier way he spoke about death. He carried himself like he wasn’t afraid; it had always intrigued her, but just a little, not enough to think anything of Henry greater than ‘brave’ or ‘stupid’. Or, usually, both. 

But he was neither, really. He threw himself into harm’s way because he could pick himself back up more reliably than she could. All he risked was...

“What would happen, specifically?” she asked. “If this secret got out?”

The grimace was clear this time. “Best case scenario, I move away, outlive the witnesses, and continue on. Worst case scenario, someone captures me, someone who thinks my physiology may be hiding the reproducible key to immortality, and they detain me for decades in search of it. Perhaps forever, if the institution is great enough.” He forced his expression to lighten, and cast her a smile. “That’s what I mean when I say you saved my life. You gave me the time I needed to hide, so that I need only reveal myself to one person, rather than however many were employed at that mechanic’s shop.”

“That’s why you said you were forced to leave. If you’d stayed by my side, you would have died there, in front of everyone.”

“Yes. I estimated that you were safe, but I couldn’t be absolutely certain. I chose my life over yours. That is why I cannot practice as a doctor.”

Jo reached out and took his hand. “You did what you had to do, Henry. I  _ was _ fine. I turned out fine.”

“But what if you hadn’t? What if you’d died, in a situation absolutely of my creation? I was stupid, foolhardy—even by my standards—and you could have paid the price.”

“I didn’t. Look at me. I’m alive. I’m fine. I’ll be back to work before too long. Never blame yourself for things that could have happened, Henry. Life’s too short to dwell on what-ifs.”

He laughed at that, openly laughed, a much-needed release of tension, and it took a moment for Jo to realize why. He’d said he was immortal, not just that he couldn’t be killed. He’d said he returned to the exact condition as when he’d first died. Did that include age?

Wait, hadn’t he called Abe  _ young  _ earlier?

“Henry,” she said as she sat back up, unsure if she really wanted to hear the answer. “How old are you?”

He glanced around again, a casual vigilance, and then he answered quietly. “When I first died, I was thirty-five. That was... that was two hundred years ago, now.”

Two hundred. Her gut instinct was that it was a lie, a prank, but she knew Henry wouldn’t lie about this, not now. Not after what she’d seen. Two  _ hundred. _

“I believe that’s everything,” he said, with a tense shrug, adjusting his coat. “The ball is now in your court, as it were. You hold my very life in your hands.”

“Henry...” she paused, getting her thoughts in order. “I understand why you lied about this, even to me. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I don’t know if I ever would have believed you. I promise—I swear to you—I won’t tell anyone.”

He let out a sudden, haggard breath. An exhausted smile. “You have no idea what it means to hear you say that.”

Two hundred years. Maybe she didn’t. What things could have happened to him in all that time? What friendships, relationships, betrayals?

She said, “I’d like you to be honest with me, from now on. About everything. Can you do that?”

The hesitation was clear in his eyes, just for a moment, but then his smile was hopeful and genuine. “Of course I can, Jo. Of course I will.”

#

Henry and Abe insisted that Jo spend her recovery in their spare room--which looked suspiciously like a storage room that had been hastily cleaned out and moderately furnished--so that she wouldn’t have to spend it alone. She’d accepted, ostensibly to take advantage of a live-in doctor, but mostly because they were right; if she had to spend weeks on end alone in her house, she didn’t know what would happen. 

Henry took some time off work at the beginning just to keep Jo company, but the people of New York City didn’t stop dying just because he’d taken a break, and before long Lucas was bribing him to return. That gave her more time alone with Abe-- _ Henry’s son-- _ to help out in the shop where she could, and listen to stories about a necessarily eclectic childhood.

Abe had been beyond thrilled when Henry had told him she knew the truth. He’d had a smug look about him, which Henry had complained he would ‘never hear the end of’, and as soon as they seemed satisfied that Jo was ready for it, they competed at telling embarrassing tales about one another. 

It should all have been too weird for her. She should have needed some time to process. But instead, the more she heard, the more she wanted to know.

Henry had always been genuine with her, in a way; he’d been as true to himself as he could be, while still hiding this impossible secret. So learning all these things felt less like she were ‘finally meeting’ him, or anything like that, and more like she had at last been invited to meet his family. To visit his hometown. To learn what made him _ him.  _

It was all so impossible. Incredible. But at the same time, so human. As it turned out, living with an impossibility like Henry’s was, still, despite everything, just another way of living.


End file.
